


A Regretful Largo

by Klangfarbenmelodie, Thymolphthalein



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Real World, Austria playing the piano, F/M, Real-life AU?, Some symbolic shit, i have no clue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 01:05:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14884691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klangfarbenmelodie/pseuds/Klangfarbenmelodie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thymolphthalein/pseuds/Thymolphthalein
Summary: A fall from fame was not an easy one. The spotlight caught every aspect of it.





	A Regretful Largo

Roderich was not the most agreeable of persons. His mannerisms were civil—to the point of cool—and leaved much to be desired. Compliments were scare, and double edged, if present at all. When he did speak, or otherwise express himself, it was either in disgust, distaste, or disappointment. The most emotion he showed was through music.

Which, by chance, had him in the constant sight of the town's musical circles. A promising young man. Any person might think that this ought to be good, as he was a talented pianist. Well, he was, and that was the problem. Perhaps it was the spotlight that illuminated his fall.

(What comes up, you see, must come down. The call of the void; into the abyss we go.)

The depths of his heart were not as barren as one might think. It was sheltered, that town. Beautiful, green, serene, yet shrouded by unforgiving mountains. Obstacles of a lifetime. Those who scaled their peaks would marvel at the destination, and quake at the journey. Their self-doubts and others' praise would egg them on. 

(The leaf comes from the same stem, after all.)

Others grew distant, preferring to marvel at him from afar. Of course, his untouchable personality played no helper. Every afternoon, he would visit his neighbour. She would smile, let him in, and he would play her melodies of melody's past. The instrument became alive.

Of course, his house was spick-span, despite him not lifting a finger. Her neighbour smiled at him over her mop. He composed over the piano, posture perfect. You couldn't perform otherwise, as anything less. His composition  _would be sub-par_ , even though the great muses would weep in amazement.

Even though he didn't return her fondness in that moment, what he was composing would. He'd play it to her later; maybe on her birthday, Christmas or Valentine's Day. 

(Keep no loose ends, for your heart would cry.) 

Perhaps that was it. The fact that he wasn't spontaneous. Reserves would run out one day. It wasn't his person. What about those who decided he'd spend his youth in greatness? Had they no plans for his future other than their aspirations; their dreams?

He was naturally talented. He felt it was easier to communicate through something without words. You could go so, so wrong with words. But with this—with music, it was so  _easy_. 

(He was blind to the fact that  _lack of words_  was a flaw in its own right.)

The woman, Elizabeta, smiled. Nostalgia for the future flowed diffused into the water, sped along by the dishcloth. One day, perhaps, their stagnant world would break. She'd gladly fall into the abyss, and see where it took her.

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended to be a character study for Roderich, but it turned into this. Oh well. The chapters are kind of distant from each other, but it works. I know what I'm doing. I think.


End file.
